Through the Darkness

“I don’t care what Swemmel says,” Vatran declared, a reckless statement from any Unkerlanter. “I don’t see how we’re going to stop the redheads this side of Sulingen. Do you, lord Marshal?” He made Rathar’s title half a challenge, half a reproach.

They were alone in the hut. Otherwise, without a doubt, Vatran would have kept his mouth shut. And otherwise, without a doubt, Rathar would not have answered, “No.” Even saying it where only Vatran could hear was a risk; the general might become a marshal if he could persuade Swemmel that the word had passed Rathar’s lips. Of course, Rathar would call him a liar, but still....

But Vatran said, “Well, you’re honest, at any rate.” He tore a chunk off the very stale loaf of black bread they’d found in the hut and passed it to Rathar. Rathar chewed and swallowed and thanked the powers above for a good set of teeth. His canteen was full of spirits. He swigged, then offered Vatran a drink. Maybe the general thought it was water. He took a big swallow. His eyes went wide. He coughed a couple of times, but held the spirits down.

“Fooled you,” Rathar said with a chuckle. But his amusement soon faded. “Now if we could only fool the redheads.”

“If we don’t--” Vatran shook his head. Not even to Rathar’s ear alone, not even with a good slug of spirits in him, would he saw what was in his mind.

Rathar didn’t have much trouble figuring out what that was. He said it, even if Vatran wouldn’t: “If we don’t, we’re ruined.”

“That’s about the size of it, lord Marshal,” Vatran agreed unhappily. “They just keep smashing through us. If we don’t fall back, they cut off chunks of the army with their behemoths and chew ‘em up at their leisure. And if we do fall back, we yield up the land they were after.”

“They’re stretched thin,” Rathar said, as much to keep up his own hopes as to hearten Rathar. “They’ve got Yaninans holding quiet stretches of the line, more of them every day. They’re putting Forthwegians and Sibians into uniform to do their fighting for them. If they keep stretching, they’re bound to break sooner or later.”

“Aye, but will it be before they break us?” Vatran said. Rathar took another swig of spirits; he had no answer for that.

Someone rapped on the door. Rathar opened it. A filthy, skeletally lean runner stood there panting. The fellow saluted, then said, “Lord Marshal, the Algarvians are pounding our lines to the northeast. If they don’t get some help, they’re going to have to fall back again.”

By his tone, he’d plainly either heard or heard about King Swemmel’s speech. “Not one step back!” the king had thundered. To start retreating so soon after such an order did not bear thinking about.

Turning to Vatran, Rathar asked, “Have we got dragons we can use to give them a hard time?” Before the general could answer, the marshal stabbed out a forefinger. “Of course we do--that farm not far from here. Order ‘em into the air--we’ll see how Mezentio’s men like getting hammered instead of doing the hammering.” His chuckle was harsh: they wouldn’t like it any better than soldiers ever did. Well, too bad for them.

“What else can we throw in there?” Vatran asked. He wasn’t shy about fighting. None of the Unkerlanter generals left alive was. The war had already weeded out a lot of men who did nothing but look handsome in a uniform tunic. It would, no doubt, weed more. Without bothering to check the map, Rathar started naming regiments and brigades the Unkerlanters could quickly move to defend the threatened area. Vatran did look at the map, and stared. “How in blazes do you keep all that in your head, lord Marshal?”

“I don’t know,” Rathar answered, a little sheepishly. “I’ve always had the knack. It comes in handy every now and again.” Still standing in the door of the hut, he shouted for an orderly.

One came running up. “What do you need, sir?”

“A horse for me, and another one for General Vatran--or a unicorn apiece, if that’s easier,” Rathar told him. “There’s trouble north and east of here. If we’re not on the spot, how can we command the defense?”

Rathar knew he was less than the best rider in the world. He rapidly discovered Vatran was among the worst. The orderly brought them both unicorns, each with its gleaming white hide painted in mud- and dirt- and grass-colored splotches to make it harder to see. Even the unicorns’ iron-shod horns were carefully rusted to stop any betraying glints of light from them. Rathar thought the beasts perfect. Vatran’s opinion was rather different.

“Not so fast, I pray you,” he protested as Rathar sped to a still-modest trot. By the way Vatran clutched the reins and clung to the saddle, he might have been going at a breakneck gallop. If he ever did have to go at a gallop, Rathar thought he would likely break his neck.

Dragons ranged over the battered land behind the battle line, some low, some high--Algarvian dragons. From the air, the two high-ranking officers looked like a pair of nondescript cavalrymen, which suited Rathar fine.